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“Sure we will, Percy,” Maribus answers his partner in crime. It might’ve been more believable if he wasn’t snickering when he said it, however, and Mera obviously feels the same way because she snorts out her disbelief.
Mera narrows her eyes at them, and flings some pretty colorful language their way, not so bad that she needs to make a pitstop at a Catholic church’s confessional and ask for the almighty’s forgiveness—yet, but it was close for a minute there. I swear, somewhere in those “criticisms” of their cowardice, and repugnant manhood, in which she used the correct terminology for said body parts mentioned using the dictionary’s words such as penis, sphincter, and in those rambling slurs, there was a female sized eight foot going somewhere—unpleasant. A place that should be physically impossible for her foot to breach, like one of their rectums being stretched far and wide.
What has me grinning like a fool, even through my monumental agony, was her showstopper, the ending of her rant where she made “guaranteed” promises to smite them. I didn’t hold back the chuckle, that line deserved it.
And it’s sorta frightening to admit this to myself, seeing as I’m known as a badass who’s never been one of those bosses who backs down from a fight and cowardly hides behind one of my soldiers, that I purposefully looked up toward the ceiling to assess things and reassure myself that a lightning bolt wasn’t heading this way.
Because unfuckingfortunately, I’m in the direct path it would take in order to get to them, and since I’m being all kinds of honest with myself and shit, I would prefer not to be struck by my woman’s newfound, wrathful vindictiveness. No matter what form that scorn takes as she dishes it out.
It’s comical to me when I notice that they too have looked upward to see if one of the Greek Gods were going to listen to her plea and provide her with the swift justice she’s asked for. I find myself in a peculiar, foreign position, one that has my brows lowering in complete bafflement—I'm conflicted, unsure if I should smugly clap for her like my normal, antagonistic self would, or plead with her to stop, and reason with her before she inadvertently hurts herself or draws their interest to her more than they already are.
What ends up having my jaw dropping in trepidation, however, is that I would swear under oath that I heard a bark, a real life, snarling woof. One that would stop me in my tracks on the streets to see if a sick hound, suffering from rabies, had made its way down south from the mountainous wilderness, happened to be in the midst of gearing up his attack to shred his teeth through my skin. Being ripped limb from limb is not on my bucket list of top ten things to experience in my lifetime.
Although, thinking back to the one time I was dared by a bunch of drunk idiots to watch the freakiest movie to ever be produced, one that I knew wasn’t in my wheelhouse of things I wanted to see, because let's be frank, I knew that the damn mangy mutt would give me nightmares for weeks afterward—like it would any sane motherfucker that didn’t want to look at every mongrel on the street and run screaming like a little bitch, Cujo was slightly less volatile in his temperament, and had far less foam frothing from his mouth than my woman does at this moment as she tries to break free from the framed box that’s keeping her from reaching her utmost desire—me.
Mera ferociously clutches onto the unbending steel bars of her cell, shaking them with all of her might, gripping them with enough violence that her knuckles begin transforming to a more translucent shade.
Her wide, cowed-filled eyes have tears leaking out in flowing streams—freefalling from their frighted depths, trekking down her pinkened, swollen cheeks, and leaving a trail of tread marks in their wake.
As my sight zones in on her, examining her from top to bottom, I can tell she’s been inconsolable, having fitful rounds of bawling her eyes out while I was passed out from the duress of my physical inadequacy. The inflammation that’s flared up on her majestic, stunning face, has me deflating, because even if I’d go against a platoon of men in order to hold her in my arms one last time, to ease the pain I see in her heart, in my current state, I’m too damn frail to even put one foot in front of the other without faceplanting onto the hard floor.
If I was a better man, one that was a believer in the power of prayer, I’d be on bended knee, repenting for my sins and petitioning a higher being for this not to be the very last time that I get the chance to lay my eyes on her lustrous beauty. If it’s not, and fuck, I hope with every fiber of my being that it isn’t, I’ll never again take for granted the gift of her gleaming smile, the way her eyes brightly glow when she’s thrilled, the way she intoxicatingly licks her bottom lip when she’s attempting to solve a metaphorical puzzle, or the way she leers at an item when it doesn't do what she’s trying to mentally force it to do—as if her glaring irritation, alongside with the added dramatic sigh of exasperation with the inanimate object, believing that the act itself will entice her target to do her bidding.
Everything about her thrills me, even her pesky bantering only makes me want her that much more.
Mera is the best thing that’s ever traipsed into my life.
There’s so much about her I still want to explore, understand, and unravel. And if my family will get their shit together I’ll have the chance to do all of those things.
“No! No!” she screams as I’m dragged out of my ten-by-ten jail cell. Unable to talk, because there are no words I haven’t already spoken to appease her, I instead keep my eyes glued to her, making promises with a look that I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep.
Once she’s out of my sight, I lower my eyes that had stayed affixed to hers and lose my hardened resolve.
“Forgive me, my Mera,” I whisperingly murmur underneath my breath so these bozos don’t listen in and overhear my fractured voice as I apologize to the woman I’ve been fighting to make mine. “I promised to never lie to you, and I’m afraid I may have accidentally done just that, even if I were doing so with good intentions behind it.”
Mera
Anger radiatesthrough every one of my pores and my hair follicles are standing on their ends from that despair feeling. I don’t like Luca being out of my eyesight. Not that I can do much in the way of protecting him, I’m powerless, but dang it, at least if we were sharing the same space, I’ll witness and know what injuries are being inflicted upon him and the potential outcome of said injuries.
I’ve never felt so darn helpless in my entire life. And that’s saying a lot considering I was basically at the mercy of the sisters for most of my life, and that’s not something that leaves you with any say over your daily life nor routine. Everything was scheduled for you, down to meals, showers, bedtime, and extra-curricular outings.
The rattling of keys yanks me from my reverie and drags me back into the current time. Instinctually, I back myself into the corner of my prison cell, tucking my knees into my chest, and blending into the background.
“Please don’t come in here. Please don’t come in here,” I chant, rocking back-and-forth on my hind end, squeezing my knees tighter to my chest.
But as my luck seems to be going these days, they don’t pass me by, they don’t go to Luca’s cage and clean it up, they come directly to the door of my iron enclosed cubicle and stand there, leering at me. Only there’s lust buried in with the malicious dark looks they’re usually sporting.
“The Crumley brothers would like a word with you,” a man I’ve never seen tells me, and by the twinkle in his eyes, I’m not convinced this is a good thing for me.
“Why?” I ask, biding for time as I think of a way to get out of this so-called “meeting” that Shayne’s brothers have set up. “Shouldn't I clean up or something first? I doubt they’d want to smell the stench that’s adhered to my skin from being locked up.”
Garrick, known as Rick, is the ringleader, the man in charge, and he’s not a kind person from what Shayne’s explained to me.
“Never fall for his nice guy routine, if you ever meet him, Mera,”she warned me once upon a time.
Gideon, also known as Deon, is his second-hand man. He picks up the job if Rick is ever away or is incapacitated for any reason.
Then there’s Graham, who’s referred to as the Hammer, his nickname leaves no need for further explanation in my opinion, it’s self-serving as it stands.
